


If Lost...

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Falling in love with someone you've never met, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inside the front cover of the old, battered leather journal are these words, written in faded black ink: "If found, please return to Dean Winchester."  And below it, in almost illegible script, is an address for Sioux Falls, South Dakota.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Lost...

**Author's Note:**

> This story hit me like a ton of bricks when I was trying to fall asleep last night. I'd love to hear what you all think! :)
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr at: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/

 

I.

            The obnoxious knocking at the door pulled Castiel from the fog of deep concentration as he worked on writing out new lesson plans.  When he pulled the door open, he was not in the least surprised to find his older brother standing there with a wicked grin on his face and a box in his hands.  He pushed past Castiel into the apartment and thumped the box down on the table.  “Hello, Gabriel.”  Castiel murmured, following his brother over to the table to see what he’d brought today.

            Gabriel was a good man, and a good brother, if a bit immature at times.  And though their family didn’t approve of the way in which he made a living, Castiel didn’t see anything particularly wrong with it.  Gabriel was in the business of resale: he traveled around buying unwanted storage units and then sold whatever he happened to find inside.  Sometimes it was antiques or even gold coins, but more often than not it was clothes and books.  But unlike some of the people in the business, Gabriel never just left those things behind.  If he didn’t have the time to sell the clothes, he dropped them off at the nearest homeless shelter.  And as for the books, he usually brought Castiel the ones that he thought were particularly interesting.  Castiel had always loved books and the written word, and after he’d taken a job as a history teacher, this love had been clearly cemented in his brother’s brain.  Not that Castiel was going to complain.

            Today, the box was full of books.  Most of them were relatively old but looked to have been well-cared for.  Gabriel leaned against the side of the table and crossed his arms.  “Hey bro, how ya been?”  He gave Castiel a thorough once-over.  “You look dead-tired and classes haven’t even started yet.”

            Castiel sighed.  “Yes, I’m aware.”

            “So what’s up?”

            “Nothing, really.  It’s just been a long year, I suppose.”

            Gabriel snorted.  “It’s only August for God’s sake, Cas.”  Castiel frowned because he really had nothing else to say to that.  Finally, after a drawn-out moment of staring, Gabriel threw his hands up and said “Fine, I’ll leave you alone.  Good luck with the kiddies this year.  Don’t let them weigh you down too much.”

            Castiel nodded as he shepherded his brother back toward the door.  “Thank you, I’ll try.”

            Gabriel paused on the threshold, and threw a glance back over his shoulder.  “Let me know what you think of the books.”

            “Of course,” Castiel murmured, shutting the door.

 

 

            Castiel didn’t bother unpacking the books until after dinner that night.  He settled on the soft, plush rug in his living room with the box of books and a glass of wine, and slowly began to go through them.  This was his favorite part: examining each book, one by one.  Slowly unveiling new stories.  Most of them were novels, a couple that Castiel already owned copies of.  And some of them were historical texts: an account of the battle of Thermopylae, and a biography of Abraham Lincoln.

            He thought the box was empty after he’s stacked the books around him, but then his fingers brushed across smooth leather, and he tilted the box for a better look.  Sitting at the bottom was a paper-back sized, tan leather-bound book.  A thrill went through him at the sight.  He lifted it carefully from the box and brought it into the light.

            Under closer inspection, the tan leather was age worn.  It was stained a darker color in places and cracked along the spine.  The bottom right corner was frayed.  It looked old, and Castiel knew without a doubt that he was holding something precious.  He set his glass of wine aside and carefully lifted the cover. 

            Slanted black script in slightly faded ink crowded across the first page.  Inside the front cover, written in faded black ink were the words: _If found, please return to Dean Winchester._ And below it, in almost illegible script, was an address for Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

            Castiel glanced back at the first page as the truth dawned on him—he held someone’s journal in his hands.  He closed the cover immediately.

 

 

            Gabriel kept strange hours, so Castiel didn’t feel bad about calling him near midnight.  When his brother picked up, Castiel cut right to the chase.  “Gabriel—do you know anything about that journal you put in my box?”

            Castiel could practically hear his brother grin across the line.  “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?  Do you like it?  I figured it was probably your kind of thing.”

            Castiel frowned.  “Well, yes, it is… interesting.  But Gabriel, there’s a name and address inside.  I don’t exactly feel comfortable with keeping someone’s journal like that.  Can you tell me anything about the storage unit you found it in so that I can return it to its owner?”

            “Bro… the guy at the storage rental place said that no one had been by that unit for years…. About six months ago, the rent stopped coming, so he put it up for auction.  Did you give that journal a close look?”

            “Not exactly.  Why?”

            “Because if you do, you’ll see that it looks pretty old.  I mean, the cover is sort of beat to hell, the pages are fragile, and the ink is pretty faded throughout.  I’m thinking it’s gotta be old enough that the guy who wrote it probably isn’t around anymore.  Ya know?”

            “Did you try to find out anything about him?”

            Gabriel snorted.  “Nope.  That’s your thing, not mine, Cas.  But if it bothers you that much, go for it.”

            “I suppose you have a point.  Alright.  Thank you, Gabriel.  Have a good night.”

 

 

            Now that Castiel was seated comfortably on his sofa with his laptop perched on his knees, he carefully opened the journal once more.  This time, he registered a hint that he hadn’t noticed before: there was no phone number with the contact information.  Maybe Gabriel was right about its age….

            He started with the name: Dean Winchester.  Apparently, that was a very common name.  Google reported more than a million results.  He tried to narrow it to only Sioux Falls listings, and got nothing.  Castiel sighed and decided to start a new search.  He typed in the address scrawled in the journal: 103 Pinetop, Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  Google presented Castiel with a map of the city and he was surprised to find that the address belonged to a bookstore called _Singer and Sons_ but no other information was available.  He Googled the bookstore next, but all that he could find was that it was the name of a bookstore in Sioux Falls.  Not even a phone number was provided. 

            Castiel wondered whether Dean Winchester used to be an employee, or maybe the bookstore was something else when the man lived there.  Either way, Castiel had hit a roadblock, and there didn’t seem to be anything for him to do about it.  So he laid the journal gently on one of his bookshelves and tried to forget about it.

 

 

II.

                       

            Days, and eventually weeks passed, and Castiel became suddenly busy with the beginning of the school year.  He was lucky to have the job he did—teaching history at one of the local high schools in his area of Boston.  But it could be draining, too. 

            The journal remained on the bookshelf, unimposing, but always present.  It was one of those things—Castiel wouldn’t actively look at it, but his eyes passed over it several times a day in the course of his regular routine.  He was able to ignore it, for a while, but then he began to wonder.

            Is this how it would stay until Castiel finally decided to be rid of it?  Or would he keep it on the shelf, neglected, until he died and it was shunted off to someone else, or thrown in a trash pile?

            Finally, on a Saturday in the beginning of September, Castiel’s curiosity finally got the better of him.  Castiel hadn’t been able to find any information on the owner, and if the journal was really as old as it seemed, what harm could Castiel do in reading it?  The contents might even hold clues to the identity of the owner, or if nothing else, some historical significance.  Castiel settled on his couch where the sunlight streamed in through his windows, a cup of coffee on the table before him, and he opened the journal.

 

 

III.

            _Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever stop moving.  It feels like I’ve been driving all my life.  I used to sit in the back seat with Sammy, even though the passenger seat was free.  It never felt right, even back then, to leave him all by himself like that._

_After dad passed, I took up his spot and Sammy sat next to me.  And we just kept driving, mostly because we didn’t know what else to do.  Sammy stopped asking about it back when he was still just a kid._

_I never had to say it out loud—that’s something I suppose I should be grateful for.  But I guess we both knew, deep down, anyway.  The reason we never stopped?  We had no place to go._

            Castiel read for hours.  He only paused when his apartment grew dim and he realized the sun had set without him noticing.  He turned a light on and continued to read.  He read the entire journal in one sitting, until his eyes were bleary and he was exhausted, and he fell asleep on the couch. 

            When he woke up on Sunday, he read it again.

 

IV.

            Castiel was haunted by the specter of a man that he never met, by words on a page.  He could almost hear Dean’s voice in his mind as he read through the man’s most private thoughts—he felt close to him, in a way.  It was dangerous.

            Dean Winchester was a man who’d lived a hard life.  He’d grown up on the road with his father and brother, moving around seemingly aimlessly from place to place.  They were never in any one place for long enough for the boys to make friends.  Their father was a bounty hunter, or some other such thing—at least, that’s how Dean described it—and he was obsessed with tracking down the man who had murdered Dean’s mother. 

            Castiel never thought he’d hold such pity and resentment for a person he’d never met, but that’s how he felt about Dean’s nameless father, the “dad” who left his sons for days on end while he was on the hunt for the criminal.  Castiel could feel Dean’s frustration through the ink on the page, could feel the hopelessness seep through Dean’s words.  What must if have been like for the young Dean to care for his brother, with no guarantee that their father would come back?

            Within the depths of the journal, Dean confessed to doing things he was ashamed of in order to keep his brother clothed and fed, things that made Castiel pause, close his eyes, and just breathe for a moment in sympathy.

            On a couple occasions, Dean believed his father was dead, and he held those thoughts inside him until he thought they might kill him.  Then—and only then—did he finally spill them on paper.  But it wasn’t true.  Dean’s father always came back, until finally, one time, he didn’t.

            There was no way to tell how much time had passed, because Dean never wrote dates in his journal, but after the death of his father, when Dean finally started writing again, his tone had changed dramatically.  He seemed much older now, perhaps beyond his years.  He wrote about taking his brother and just going—driving until they found someplace they’d never been before.  Dean had been afraid that someone would try to take his brother from him, and had been determined to make sure it didn’t happen.

            The last entry spoke of Dean and Sammy stopping at a motel in Montana.  And then nothing.

            Dean Winchester seemed like a kind, infinitely brave man, who cared more for his little brother than Castiel could even fathom.  He learned Dean’s hopes, and his fears, and the secrets he’d never wanted anyone to know. 

            It almost felt like they were having a conversation.  Dean could almost have been sitting on the couch beside Castiel, telling him his life story over a cup of coffee.  Dean’s presence was so strong that it lived in his words, transcended time and space.  Castiel almost believed that he could simply reach out and touch the man.

            The words of Dean Winchester haunted him.

 

 

V.

            Over dinner on a Friday night in early October, Gabriel sat his fork down—a miracle in itself—and leveled Castiel with a concerned stare.  “Hey bro—you feeling okay?”

            Castiel swirled his wine, but didn’t take a drink.  “I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

            “Well, first off, you’ve barely touched your food.”  Gabriel arched his brows and pointed at Castiel’s admittedly still-full plate.  “But mostly just because you seem preoccupied with something lately.  I can’t even seem to get a rise out of you anymore.”

            Castiel frowned. “I… suppose I am a bit preoccupied.”

            “With what?  Work not treating you well, or…?  Need me to ice someone for you?”

            Castiel rolled his eyes.  “It’s nothing like that, Gabriel.”

            Gabriel huffed.  “Well, then?  I’m not gonna just sit here and watch you mope all night.  Spill.”

            Castiel twisted the wine glass between his fingers for a moment, debating on how much he should say.  Finally, he took a deep breath and asked.  “Do you remember that journal you gave me back in August?”

            “Sure.  The one you were going to research, right?”

            “Yes, that one.”

            “Well, did you ever find anything else out?”

            “Not exactly….”

            “Then what?”

            Castiel pushed the glass away.  “I read it.”

            Gabriel snorted.  “Finally caved, huh?  So, what?  Did the guy confess to murder or something?”

            “No, nothing like that.”

            “What is it then?”

            “I just… I can’t stop thinking about it.  About Dean.”

            “Dean?”

            “The man who wrote it.”

            Gabriel was silent for too long, so Castiel raised his eyes.  His brother was watching him, closely, one eyebrow raised speculatively.  Castiel shifted under his gaze.  He bit his lip—a nervous habit.  Gabriel’s eyes went suddenly wide, and he gasped.  “Oh my God… you fell in love with him, didn’t you?  With Dean?  You’re pining for someone that you’ve never met!”

            Castiel felt like he’d just swallowed a bucket of ice.  He averted his eyes and murmured “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

 

VI.

            Fall break brought with it the perfect opportunity for rest.  Castiel was exhausted.  He’d tried to put Dean out of his mind, but no matter what, he hadn’t been able to.  He tossed and turned at night, wondering what had happened to Dean past that last journal entry.  Wondering if the man was still alive, and if so, how old was he?  Was he old enough to be Castiel’s father?  Grandfather?

            He felt foolish for thinking about Dean so much, but Gabriel was right, even if Castiel hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time.  He was pining.  Part of him was in love with Dean Winchester.  And it was turning into a problem.

            Castiel stopped into his favorite bookstore, only a couple of blocks away from his apartment, and allowed himself a sigh of relief.  If browsing through new books couldn’t calm him, then really, nothing would.  He refused to allow himself to think of that other bookstore, _Singer and Sons._

            He spent hours browsing through the shelves, allowing his mind to wander.  Finally he settled on a new mystery novel—something that would hopefully keep his attention but wouldn’t require a lot of heavy thinking.  It was when he was standing in line when he saw it on the bookmark display.  His eyes were drawn to the quote as if by magic. 

            _“What you seek, is seeking you.” –Rumi_

The breath caught in Castiel’s throat.

 

 

VII

            He didn’t allow himself to have second thoughts.  As soon as he returned home, he opened up his laptop and got to work.  It was completely unlike him, but maybe that was the point.  Gabriel would laugh at him, if he knew.  And Castiel was sure that he would feel ridiculous later, but he’d come to the point where something had to give.  And when Fate seemed to reach out and slap him, who was Castiel to ignore it?

            After frantically typing away on the computer, Castiel sat back on his heels and looked at what he’d done, really allowing himself to take it in. 

            The time of departure for a flight to South Dakota stared back at him.

 

 

VIII

            Castiel did indeed feel foolish.

            Less than a day after booking his ticket, he found himself slightly disheveled and enormously tired, standing across the road from a small but cozy looking bookstore in the heart of Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  In the waning, late afternoon sun, Castiel could easily read the swinging sign above the door: _Singer and Sons._

            Castiel clutched Dean’s journal tightly in his hands as he stood, nervous, on the sidewalk across the street.  Now that he was here, he didn’t know what to do.  What, exactly, was he expecting to gain from this insane, and utterly rash trip to South Dakota?  It was absurd to think that anything good would come of this.  But, well… he was too close now to turn back.  Castiel was a shy, timid man, it was true… but he wasn’t a coward.  So he squared his shoulders, and crossed the street.

            When Castiel pushed open the door, his entrance was signaled by the cheery tinkling of a bell.  The moment Castiel stepped inside of the shop, he was met with a warm wash of air that smelled like ink, paper, and that unique scent that was old books.  It was wonderful, Castiel thought, but there was no one in sight.

            Castiel shrugged, figuring that he would stumble across a clerk sooner or later, and allowed himself to begin to wander through the shelves.  With each step he took, Castiel seemed to soak in the calming atmosphere of the shop.  With each breath, he felt himself relax a little more.  The shop was small, but lit with warm, golden lights, and it felt cozy rather than cramped. 

            A few minutes later, Castiel was comfortably ensconced in an aisle of historical fiction, when he was startled by the sound of someone clearing their throat.  Castiel jumped and turned to see a tall, beautiful man with bright green eyes, freckles, and pink lips smiling back at him.  The other man chuckled and his voice was just as beautiful as his face.  He grinned and said, “Sorry, man.  Didn’t mean to scare you.”  He held out his hand for Castiel to shake.  “I’m Dean—is there something I can help you find?”

            Castiel’s mouth went instantly dry and his eyes widened in shock.  He must have misheard, he thought to himself, but when he looked down, the little pin on the man’s shirt read _Dean._ Castiel swallowed thickly, forced himself to take a deep breath, and said “I think… I might be looking for you.”  Dean’s brows pulled together in confusion but then Castiel held out the journal and Dean’s face changed completely: shock, recognition, and wonder flitted across his features in an instant.

            Dean reached out with shaky hands and took the journal from Castiel.  His voice was lower now, wobbly, when he asked “Where did you find this?”

            Castiel shrugged one shoulder awkwardly.  “A storage unit.  In Boston.”

            Dean’s eyes widened comically.  “Boston?”  He let out a low whistle.  “That’s a hell of a ways away.  Did you come all the way to South Dakota for this?”

            Castiel couldn’t help but blush.  He looked away from Dean’s incredulous face.  “Um…yes.”

            Dean tilted his head until he caught Castiel’s eyes once more.  His voice was a low murmur when he asked “What’s your name?”

            “Castiel…Novak.”

            Dean nodded to himself for a moment, then asked  “Why in the world would you travel all that way to return a journal, Cas?”

            Castiel shivered at the nickname that rolled so easily off Dean’s tongue.  He began to fidget, twisting his fingers together.  “I… well, I suppose it’s a bit foolish, really.”

            “Tell me.”  Dean murmured in his calm, deep voice.

            “First I must apologize, Dean.  I read the journal.”  Dean’s eyebrows quirked up.  “It’s not normally my nature to read private things, but my brother convinced me that the age of the journal suggested that the owner probably wasn’t around anymore.  I’m uh… I’m a historian.”

            “So you came all this way, believing that I wasn’t even alive anymore?”

            Castiel shrugged.  “I thought it very likely, yes.”

            “Then why did you do it?”

            Castiel turned his eyes away again.  “It’s silly.”

            Dean laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, effectively drawing his attention back.  “I wanna hear it anyway.”

            Castiel bit his lip for a moment, uncertain.  But the warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder gave him courage, so he confessed:  “Because when I read that journal, I felt a kind of… connection to… you.  And I suppose… I came on the slim chance that maybe… just maybe… I could still find you.”

            They stared at each other, quiet, for a time.  Dean’s hand was still warm on Castiel’s shoulder, and then suddenly, he squeezed gently, comfortingly, and Castiel felt grounded again.  “Hey Cas… would you like to get a coffee with me?”

            Castiel’s heart sang, so he smiled, and answered “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is curious, this story has now been translated into Russian. You can find it here: http://ficbook.net/readfic/1740252


End file.
